Chapter 5 #3
“Father?” Kat asks shakily.
The practiced mask of a councilman overshadows his features. “Nothing, my dears. Clearly, Selene is not feeling well. Would you excuse us for a moment?” He pats Lori’s hand with a patronizing smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, then turns to Kat. “Come along.”
As they move toward the door, he inclines his head with the courtly grace of a man who’s spent a lifetime turning virtue into theater. “This will only take a moment,” he assures them, pausing by the doorway just long enough to let them through.
When the door closes behind them, he turns toward the hearth, and the fire hurls orange across his jaw. He holds the parchment aloft as if displaying a trophy and then, with a victorious little smirk, tosses it into the flames.
The paper catches instantly, devouring the ink. The seal bubbles and screams like a small animal. He watches the contract curl and curl, as though he’s burning away any chance of bargaining. His thin laughter cuts through the crackling of the fire. “There. Let the embers be the final say.”
A dozen things rise in me—fear, rage, the old reflex to beg Rexen for forgiveness of his sins—but I stay still.
I have practiced this silence a thousand times, and I will not grant him the satisfaction of seeing me falter.
The room leans toward him like a tide. But I’m done playing his games, and I still have one more trick, one final move to bring this king to checkmate.
“I have the document, Father,” I say, voice low and steady, the words like steel. “You know the one. With your seal. Your signature. And that of the official it was meant to appease.”
For a second, he goes utterly still, like an insect trapped in amber.
A drop of sweat slides down his brow in the reflection of the hearth’s heat, and his arrogant smile vanishes.
He opens his mouth, then shuts it again, as if trying to recall a line he’s rehearsed a thousand times yet still forgotten at the critical moment.
A soft knock interrupts us, a sound that would be so ordinary on any other day. But now it feels like a herald, a harbinger of the dreadful death that awaits me in the cold tides of the lake.
Neither of us moves to answer. The knock comes again, sharper this time, and a moment later, the door swings inward.
Though Father tries not to flinch, a paleness creeps across his face, tiny beads pebbling his temples. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t even blink. For a heartbeat, I see him again—not my father, but the man he offered me to.
His hands on my arms. The acrid smell of cloves and smoke. The panic clawing up my throat when I realized no one was coming to save me. How no one believed me.
I snap back to the present, pulse racing, just as the door opens to reveal…
Aaron.
He steps through, clean and composed in a dark, embroidered tunic. His eyes meet mine, and something silent passes between us. He walks in with the ease of a man twice his age, shoulders squared, every step deliberate.
“I believe this is what you requested,” he says, holding out a scroll. “Straight from my father’s estate. Signed and sealed.”
My father’s mouth twitches again, but this time, there’s bitterness beneath it. “What’s this?” he snaps, snatching the parchment.
“As the newly appointed official for all documents pertaining to land inheritance and marriage under the office of my father,” Aaron replies smoothly, “this is a legally binding contract confirming that Ms. Katherine Fairchild has my father’s endorsement as steward of Fairchild Ranch and all its lands following Ms. Selene Fairchild’s departure effective midnight tonight.
Though still under the age of majority, she is free to take up full residence and, as the beneficiary of a Bloodmoon Bride, receive an annual sum for five years.
“The second document grants my father’s endorsement of her marriage to Mr. Tobias Reynolds. The Council has also generously agreed to waive the usual year of attornment in exchange for the quiet resolution of a matter which I assume Ms. Fairchild has just made you aware of.”
“Sign it, Father,” I say quietly, “and the truth disappears with me at midnight.”
A torrent of emotions ripples across his face as he reads the document—twice, as he always does, ensuring he misses nothing. Then his gaze lifts to meet mine.
“You really think you have it all figured out, don’t you?” he sneers.
But there it is. The flicker in his eyes. Anger. Defeat. And something darker—pride.
I beat him. He knows it. Hates it. And is proud all the same, in his own twisted way.
To my relief, he signs. He thrusts the parchment toward Aaron without another word, then storms from the room.
Lori follows, one hand cradling the slight swell of her belly—the unborn half-sibling I’ll never meet. I send a silent prayer to Rexen that it’s a boy. That he lives.
Kat stares after them for a long moment.
Aaron steps forward and offers her the parchment. She takes it with shaking hands, staring down at the ink as if it’s both a miracle and an insult.
“Go on,” I say softly. “Sign it.”
Her lip trembles. “Why would you give this to me?”
“Because it’s yours.”
“Yours?” she snaps, eyes glistening. “You think this makes us even?”
“Kat—”
“You’ll never understand,” she says, her voice breaking with fury.
She signs. Hard. Then shoves the parchment into Aaron’s hands and turns on me.
“May the gods take you quickly, sister,” she says coldly. “And may they forgive you. Because I never will.”
She leaves without looking back. The door slams hard enough to rattle the glass.
Silence floods the room.
I don’t realize I’m shaking until Aaron steps closer.
“Selene,” he says gently.
I press my lips together, trying not to cry. Trying to be finished with tears.
He hesitates, then lifts his hands, cradling my face. The tenderness of it nearly breaks me.
“I owe you a lifetime of thank-yous,” I whisper, unable to hide the emotion in my voice.
“You don’t owe me anything,” he says softly, his thumb brushing away the tear that escapes anyway. After a tense moment, he speaks again. “May I kiss you?” he breathes.
“For luck?” I manage.
He nods. I nod back, closing my eyes as if that might still the storm inside me.
He kisses my cheek, his touch warm and lingering. Then he pulls back. My eyes flutter open to find him searching my face, as if memorizing it. As if he knows this is the last time.
Then he kisses me.
Not hurried. Not desperate. A quiet, grateful kiss that tastes like goodbye. For one brief moment, I let myself lean into it. Let myself forget the fire. The water. The midnight fire waiting for me.
When he pulls away, he presses something into my palm. My breath catches as I recognize the weight. My Pegasus dagger—the one taken from me upon my arrival at this accursed temple. No need for weapons in the afterlife, the maids had said.
“Just in case,” he murmurs. Then, lower still, “You and I both know you won’t be dining with the gods tonight.”
My pulse stutters. He knows.
I stare at him, questions burning. Did his father tell him? Does the Council know? Have I been exposed already?
But Aaron only gives me a sad, knowing look.
“Use your power wisely,” I say. “And for gods’ sakes—visit more than one temple.”
He huffs a quiet laugh and presses his hand briefly over mine, sealing the dagger between our palms like a vow.
“And… watch out for her,” I say, glancing toward the door Kat disappeared through.
“I promise.” He turns to leave, then pauses. For just a breath, I see the weight he carries—expectations, legacy, guilt. He never wanted to inherit his family’s power. Nor was he meant to.
Maybe that’s why he’s the only one strong enough to carry it.
“Give ’em hell, witch,” he says, that devilishly crooked smile easing something tight in my chest.
The door closes behind him.
I stand alone, the echo of my sister’s words still ringing in my ears, the weight of every choice I’ve ever made pressing against my ribs like a closing fist.
The drums begin.
No, not drums. Warbeats. A rhythm older than language, pulsing from the bones of the land itself.
Every thud echoes through my chest like a countdown.
A farewell. The sky above blazes like copper and blood, and even the wind seems to hold its breath.
A horn sounds from the hilltop, and thousands of heads turn.
I grip my red bouquet tighter; it feels more funerary than bridal.
As we watch, two figures emerge from the mist-drenched road—one tall, cloaked in crimson and black, and the other delicate and feminine, gliding beside him in white.
The tall man moves with the elegance of someone used to a position of command. Golden hair falls in waves over a sharply cut jaw, and when he lowers his hood, the entire crowd seems to hold its breath. His eyes are strange—gold-shot amber, bright enough to catch glimmers of light even in the dusk.
The Oracle bends low. “Lord Cassian Vale, Envoy of the Gods, Speaker for the South,” she greets him.
Lord Cassian inclines his head, offering a hollow smile. “An honor, as always.”
Beside him, the woman tilts her face toward the sound of the Oracle’s voice. Her eyes are as pale and piercing as moonstone. I know her name. We all know her name.
Lyra. As golden-haired as her brother and just as tall.
The twins. The representatives of the North and the South. I’d heard the stories, the whispers that they were alive at the founding of the Bloodmoon Ceremony—that one could read truth in a heartbeat, and the other could sense a soul’s worth in a single glance.
Lord Cassian paces down the line of brides, Lyra and the Oracle in tow, his measured gaze falling on each of us in turn.
When it lands on me, I swear I can see something flicker in those golden eyes. Interest, maybe? Or recognition? He looks away and whispers something to Lyra, who smiles faintly, as if she already knows the outcome of a game only they know is being played.
“They like to wager on who will be accepted by the gods first,” the bride next to me murmurs, “and who will be rejected and torn to pieces.”
A chill crawls up my spine.
“That’s why they have golden eyes,” another whispers. “They’re the only ones with the power to see through the mist.”
Cassian steps closer, inspecting Azariel as if testing the sacred blade’s edge. “Carry out the rites as tradition demands,” he commands. “The great Drakonis grows impatient for his offerings.”
The Oracle nods, and the drums resume—louder this time, reverberating through the water like a summons from another world.
Drakonis. The god of fire. The eternal flame waiting beyond the mist. That’s what we’re told. That’s what they all believe.
But something in Cassian’s voice makes the word sound less like worship… and more like a warning.
We walk barefoot from the lake house, our white gowns trailing through crimson rose petals. The scent is heavy in the air, thick and cloying, clinging to our skin like a final blessing.
A narrow path of red stretches ahead, splitting into twelve branches, each leading to a single boat. I take my place last in line, pressing my bouquet to my chest.
When I turn back toward the crowd, I see Kat watching grimly on. Standing beside her are Tobias and Aaron. Aaron gives me a curt nod of farewell—a merciful assurance that he will follow through on all he has promised.
The Oracle moves down the line along the shore, slicing each girl’s palm with Azariel, reopening the wounds she made when they were selected.
We do not cry out; we’ve been taught not to all our lives. When she reaches me, she pauses. For a split second, she hesitates, and I wonder if she’s experiencing a vision, or perhaps remembering my cousin walking this same path five long years ago.
Just when I think she’s about to say something, to stop me, to end this ruse, she makes a sudden cut.
My blood blooms against the white. It doesn’t hurt, not at first. Just a sting, like the bite of a thorn. But the blood quickly soaks my palm, curling into the threads of my gown like roots claiming the earth.
As we climb into the ceremonial boats, another wave of mist rolls in like a sigh.
The boat rocks gently beneath me as I step in.
I adjust my grip on the paddle, my fingers slipping once, twice, the cut in my palm throbbing in time with my heartbeat.
Blood, oil, saltwater—it all smells the same now. Like something sacred.
I take one last breath of dry air, one last glimpse of land. My sister. My home. My humanity.
I let it all go and push off.
The haze blankets the lake, silver and soft, swallowing the boats one by one.
Behind me, the Oracle whispers something I can’t make out, and the crowd begins to chant.
I press my hands against my ears, but the song crawls under my skin.
Come, god of flame. Come take her away.
This bride is yours forever.
We give her heart. We give her soul.
Bring prosperity and good fortune to us all.
Let fire cleanse. Let ashes fall.
A prayer and a curse.
As the mist thickens, I lean forward into the fog and paddle on into the unknown. Toward the fire. Toward whatever waits beyond the mist.
And I do not look back.
Because if I do, I’ll break. And I cannot afford to break.
Not now. Not ever. Not for them.
Let the beast come for me. Let it see I am not afraid.
Even if I burn.